


in the night i am wild-eyed and you've got me now

by nevershootamockingbird



Category: UnDeadwood (Web Series)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Families of Choice, Friendship, Future Fic, Hurt/Comfort, Minor Violence, Multi, Post-Canon, UnDeadwood Mini-series (Critical Role), Western Gothic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-03
Updated: 2019-11-03
Packaged: 2021-01-21 03:40:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21293027
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nevershootamockingbird/pseuds/nevershootamockingbird
Summary: The sun rises over a new day in Deadwood. New dead will be buried, and new people will die.Arabella’s family will not be among them.Arabella’s family will live.
Relationships: Miriam Landisman/Arabella Whitlock, Reverend Matthew Mason/Clayton Sharpe
Comments: 28
Kudos: 200





	in the night i am wild-eyed and you've got me now

**Author's Note:**

> God I just love these characters so damn much. 
> 
> I'm really proud of this one, I had such a good time writing it. I hope you enjoy!
> 
> Post-canon possibilities, no spoilers. 
> 
> Arabella doesn't take kindly to anyone threatening her family. They're there to pick up the pieces after she falls apart.

Arabella wakes up in a coffin. 

She does not panic. She does not panic. She cannot panic.

Her head feels as though it’s been stuffed with cotton, and combined with a thick, cloying taste on the back of her tongue it isn’t too hard to figure she’s been drugged. Memories slip away as she tries to reach for them, hazy and hidden, but she knows that whatever happened she wasn’t goddamn alone. 

The air in the box, and it is a box, just a box, no matter the shape, is warm and stale. She does not wonder how long she’s been buried. 

Her friends are out there, and the chill in her bones tells her that they’re in trouble. 

Even confined as she is, it doesn’t take her long to find that both her Derringer and her Colt are still in her possession, and Arabella has to let slip hysterical laugh at the sheer stupidity of whoever didn’t remove them from her. She has just enough room to hammer the butt of her revolver up against the lid; on the fifth strike, the cheap wood cracks and splinters, sending a bolt of adrenaline through her. 

Arabella pockets her guns, takes a deep breath and shuts her eyes tight before reaching up and pushing at the cracked section hard. Damp soil immediately fills the space, clumping down onto her, but Arabella squirms and pushes her way up, ignoring the fear twisting sourly in her stomach. 

She claws at the soil in her grave and thinks, _ Is this what it was like for you, Cynthia? _

Seconds tick by, turning into minutes, and Arabella continues to dig her way out, desperation mounting. Her lungs burn, her limbs feel heavy, but she keeps moving up, thrashing and gouging spaces in the dirt, forcing her way up slowly until finally, finally, one hand breaks free into the cold air. 

A few more seconds and she’s dragging herself up enough to gasp for air as loose bits of soil tumble down her hair. Arabella squirms and reaches out for firmer ground, digging her nails in to pull herself forward and free of the grave, kicking and squirming her way to freedom. 

She doesn’t know how she’ll ever fucking step foot in a cemetery again. 

Pushing herself to her feet is taxing, but Arabella does so as quickly as she can, rubbing clumps of wet earth away from her eyes and ignoring the sting as she blinks themp open. Trees rise around her, tall and thick and nothing like the barren desert that surrounds Deadwood. Panic seizes at her lungs as she tries not to think about how far away she is, about how far away her friends might be.

It’s a damn cold night, but a clear one, and the canopy isn’t too thick that she can’t still catch glimpses of the stars and moon up above. She’s managed to orient herself when she glances back down and sees fog gathering around her feet, thick and low to the ground, stretching through the trees to the east. 

Her heart thuds in her chest. _ Aloysius _.

Arabella picks up her skirts and she runs. 

Trees whip past her, low branches occasionally catching at her hair and dress, scraping along her face and arms, but she pays no mind to the discomfort, focuses only on not tripping over her own damn feet as she follows the misty path. She doesn’t slow until she hears voices, her lungs fit to bursting and her muscles all cramped; she creeps forward, then, stepping into the pockets left for her by the fog, until she’s edging right up along the tree line of another small clearing. 

A few lanterns are scattered about on the ground, and bile rises up in her throat as she watches four men standing around a shallow, open grave, laughing and scooping dirt onto a coffin. One holds a bottle of liquor, swaying slightly as he leans against his shovel, and Arabella spots a spare one not far from where she stands, knows it means there’s a fifth man she should be watching out for. 

Laughter turns to jeers, then, and her attention snaps back up in time to see one of the men spit down into the half-filled hole. The fog slowly creeps forward, and then she hears what will haunt her nightmares for years to come. 

From inside the grave, inside the coffin, someone is yelling and banging against the lid. 

The wood handle is solid under her hands, and she gives up on stealth entirely, running forward and swings the shovel with all her might at the closest piece of shit to her. She connects with a sickening, satisfying _ crack _, and the man drops like a fucking felled tree. Arabella turns quick as yelling starts from the other men, and she shoves the sharp end of the shovel into the face of the one coming at her. He falls with a scream, and then bright hot pain flares in her shoulder, making her gasp and lose her grip on the shovel. 

Another shot rings out, but it goes wide as she ducks, reaching into her pocket for revolver and pulling it up so quick she thinks Clayton would be proud. She doesn’t hesitate as she aims, squeezing once, twice, watches as the men fall with pieces of their goddamn faces missing. 

It’s quiet then, save for the man still yelling and writhing in pain on the ground next to her. 

Arabella stands, steps over him and places one boot high up on his chest, just edging into his throat. It serves real well to shut him up fast. 

“Where is your last man?” He blinks up at her a little dazed, blood oozing from the large gash across his face, and Arabella bares her teeth, forgets every damned lesson she was forced to learn as she asks again, “I said, where the fuck is your last man?”

“There ain’t one,” but it’s panicked, his eyes darting around, and Arabella snorts, pressed the toe of her boot more firmly into his windpipe to make him wheeze, his gaze snapping back to her immediately. She keeps his gaze as she cocks her Colt, holding it loosely at her side. 

“I won’t ask again,,” she warns, grip tightening on her gun. “Tell me where he is, or I’ll make sure you join your friends real fuckin’ slow and painful.”

The man swallows hard, nodding frantically as he holds his hands up. “Dan took the horses further out, somethin’ got ‘em spooked and they were makin’ too much noise. He left maybe five minutes ago.

“Good boy. Now, where are _ my _ friends?” She watches his gaze dart to the grave, and she inhales sharply, frustration and fear mounting as she tightens her grip on her gun, pointing it down at his face. “Not that one, shithead. Where are the other three?”

“Don’t know who you’re talkin’ ‘bout,” he nearly spits at her, and Arabella sees red. She takes a step back, grinds her heel down into his crotch and then leans down to shove her gun against his stomach as he yells and convulses. 

His gaze is watery when he finally looks at her, his skin pale and sweaty, and she makes sure to smile sweetly as she presses her revolver firmly into his gut. “Now, listen close. I shoot you here, and you’ll be in goddamn agony, but you won’t die right away. No, I’ll make sure of that, and I’ll keep you hurtin’ as long as you got breath in your lungs. So, think real hard about if you want to answer my question, because I won’t be askin’ again. Where are my friends?”

“Other side of the hills,” he gasps out, shaking, and vicious satisfaction fills her gut. He shakes his head, keeps rambling on, “Five more men took ‘em to the other side of the hills, they were gonna go up into ‘em, that’s all I know, I swear, wasn’t told anythin’ else, you gotta--”

“I don’t gotta do anything,” she cuts him off, lips curling in distaste as she leans forward, moves the gun and digs it right into the soft skin of his jaw. “Thank you ever so much for your information. I hope you enjoy hell.”

If he tries to scream, she’ll never know. Arabella pulls the trigger as his mouth opens, and then there’s nothing. She ignores the splatter of blood against her cheek and neck. 

The grave is quiet. 

The grave is quiet, and panic slams through her, crushing her heart as she scrambles down into the shallow grave, pounding on the lid even as she uses her other arm to sweep soil away. 

“Aly?” She calls out, ignoring the rough scrape of cheap wood on her fist. “Aloysius, answer me, dammit!”

“Bella?” Comes a muffled reply, and Arabella sobs, shuffling back and sweeping more dirt away before pulling her pistol out of her pocket. 

“Can you cover your eyes? I’m gonna try to break the lid,” she shouts, raising her pistol up over her head and tensing her muscles. 

“I don’t give a shit how you do it, just get me the fuck out!” Comes the answer, and a wet laugh bursts from her throat as she brings the butt of the pistol down again and again, until the lid splinters and cracks under her. She tosses the gun over the edge of the grave, reaching down and digging into the crack, careless of the shards of wood that cut and scrape her fingers, of the dull ache radiating through her shoulder. 

Aloysius stares up at her as she pulls a piece away, and then they’re both laughing, crying, scrabbling at the wood and snapping off more pieces of lid until he can sit up. She throws her arms around his neck, even though the angle is awkward and she’s fucking filthy, must be getting grime all over him, but he grabs her just as tight. 

Neither say anything about the tear tracks on their cheeks as they part. 

“Let's get you out of there, we need to move,” and Aly hums in agreement, eyes tight with concern. She helps him stand carefully, then scrambled up out of the hole, ready to pull him out as she straightens up. 

There’s a metallic click above her head, and then she's looking straight down the barrel of her discarded pistol. “Don't fuckin’ move.”

Aly swears behind her, but Arabella keeps her focus on the beady-eyed man holding her at gunpoint. 

“Dan, I assume?” She asks, but it only gets her a grunt in return. He grabs at her shoulder and pain bursts bright once more, makes her pliant as he forces her to turn until she faces Aloysius. Cold metal presses against her temple, and her friend sucks in a sharp breath, jaw clenched and eyes hard. 

The fog swirls low around them, and Arabella feels at peace. 

“You move over here and I shoot her, you got it?” Dan digs the gun harder into her temple, making her wince, but she keeps her gaze locked with Aly. “S’posed to kill you anyway, don't rightfully care if it's with a bullet instead. So just stay there!”

Aloysius’s hand twitches at his side. She takes a deep breath before asking, “Do you trust me?”

“That's enough outta you,” and the grip on her shoulder tightens, makes spots dance in front of her eyes as something warm and wet slides down her arm. “And you! Put that down or I'll blow her fuckin’ brains out!"

Her vision clears enough for her to see that Aloysius is holding his Bowie knife by the blade, face stormy and sure; when he catches her gaze he nods, just once. 

“Do it,” and she shuts her eyes even as she says the words, wrenching her head to the right. The trigger clicks, and then there’s a thud and a wet gurgle. 

Arabella turns to see Dan lying on the ground, eyes open and blood trickling from his mouth, knife embedded to the hilt in his chest. She reaches down to pick up her empty gun before walking back over to help Aloysius out of the pit. 

“Nice aim,” she offers with a grin as he steps up next to her, but Aly just squeezes her hand, unusually solemn as he looks down at her.

“I appreciate the faith,” is all he says. Arabella gives him a soft smile and a nod before letting go. “Y’know where the others are? Couldn’t hear a damn thing in there.”

“Five other men took them up around the other side of the hills. We need to find the horses,” she tells him, glancing around like she actually stands a chance of figuring out which direction they might be in. Aly pulls his knife free from the dead man with a grunt, swiping the blade clean on Dan’s vest before straightening up. 

“Won't be a problem, just gotta follow it.” She follows his outstretched arm, to where the fog has begun to form a thick path to their right. 

Aloysius doesn't let his leg slow them down, and Arabella doesn't do him the disservice of asking if needs to take a break. Some fifteen minutes later they're urging two horses through the forest, as fast as they can; Aly takes point, thundering ahead of her as they try to race against an unknown clock. 

Arabella doesn’t know if she likes their odds. 

They finally break through the trees, and she urges her horse up to stay abreast of her friend’s, glancing over with trepidation dripping down her throat. “Aly? Do you think we’ll be in time?”

“I do. We gotta be,” he tells her, mouth set in a grim slash, and she swallows hard as she looks up the incline ahead of them, nudging her horse forward as it starts to slow. 

She wishes she had time to make a deal. 

“What if we’re too late?” And the words are hardly more than a whisper, scarcely audible over the steady hoofbeats, but Aloysius whips his head over to look at her all the same. Arabella swallows hard, past the fear lodged her throat. “What if-- what if they’re--”

“Not bein’ buried?” He finishes for her, when it’s clear she’ll choke on the words before she says them. She nods, swallowing again and glancing his way, and he sighs heavily before looking forward at the path again. The leather of his gloves creak when his hands tighten around the reins. “The thought’d crossed my mind, too.”

They say nothing more, but both urge their horses faster up the path, towards the next ridge and the trees they’re beginning to see just beyond. Arabella thinks about praying to a god she doesn’t believe in.

She wonders if anyone would even listen. 

They crest the ridge and something has her yanking her horse to a stop, throwing her arm out towards Aloysius even as he stops his own. A cold breeze whips past them, throwing her tangled hair into her face, and she reaches up to shove it out of her face so she can get a better look at the new stretch of trees.

Her fingers come away ash-streaked and sooty. The wind smells, for just a moment, of nothing but smoke. 

"Aly?" And she couldn't keep the panic out of her voice if she tried, turns to find him looking more rattled than she's ever seen. “Aly, are they--”

“No,” and he cuts her off quick, firm, shaking his head once as he meets her gaze. “No, they ain’t burnin’. No fire, look,” and he gestures out wildly towards the forest that stands quiet, no smoke rising anywhere, no sight of flames. 

She swallows hard, sour all the way down.

“A warning, then,” she says faintly, stomach twisting, and Aloysius says nothing but she hears that tell-tale creaking again. “We have to hurry.”

With a kick to her horse’s flanks Arabella starts her way down to the treeline, doesn’t look back to see whether Aly is following, knows in her heart that he will. They pass into the trees, not slowing yet, heading blindly into the darkness save for the fog that spills out in front of them. The burn in her shoulder has gotten steadily worse, but she grits her teeth against the pain and says nothing.

There isn’t time. She can’t run out of time.

“Woah, woah, hang on.” Aloysius’s voice is low, insistent, and he’s reaching out for her horse’s bridle even as she tugs back on the reins. They slow, come to a still, the horses restless and twitchy beneath them, and Arabella watches as Aly closes his eyes, head cocking just a little the left as he listens for _ something _. 

She holds her breath, both hands pressed over her nose and mouth, holds back every scream and cry that she can’t risk letting out. Her skin smells of rotting soil and burnt wood, and her stomach roils. 

Death is in the air. Arabella just wishes she knew who it was fuckin’ here for. 

“Tie ‘em up here, we gotta go on foot,” Aly orders after a moment, eyes opening as he begins to dismount, and Arabella rushes to follow. She’s hastily reloading her pistol when a large palm catches her by the elbow; when she turns it’s to find Aloysius nearly on top of her, eyes dark like the color of pitch, so far off from the normal warm brown that it makes her breath catch in her throat. 

“Aly?” And she’s shaking, she realizes, fear and adrenaline and a tangle of emotions she can’t possibly begin to unwind coursing through her veins.

Her friend squeezes her arm gently before pointing forward with his other hand. There’s nothing soft about his voice when he tells her, “I’ll meet you ‘round the other side, Bella. Run.”

Arabella flies. 

Her feet pound along the forest floor, damp soil packing down and shifting as she rushes through trees. Her heart is a staccato beat in her throat, skirts clenched so tightly in her hands that she's fair certain a few holes have been ripped. She doesn't stop until she sees blood on a tree.

It's a smear, as though someone with an open wound got pushed up against the trunk, so dark it appears almost black. When she taps her fingertips against the bark, it's still a little damp, a little tacky, not yet dried. 

She’s almost there. 

_ Run _, Aly’s voice echoes in her head, and Arabella does, uncaring of what noise she might be making. It isn’t long until she hears the sound of laughter, mean and low, not long until she sees the low lantern light blinking through the trees. She takes a sharp left, bracing herself against a tree as she takes in a sight that has her blood fucking burning. 

Clayton lies flat on his back, hat long gone, a rag tied tight around his mouth; his hands are underneath him, most likely tied, and she can see that his jacket and shirt are ripped along his bicep, stained red around the edges. Miriam and Matthew are sat up against each other just a hair’s breadth from him, gagged and tied just the same, the reverend with a shiner and his left eye swollen half-shut, Miriam with a snarl on her face and her hair all mussed. 

Five men work around the clearing with them, and Arabella digs her nails into wood as she realizes what's unfolding. Two men are digging a pit similar to the one she found Aly in; they’re laughing, fucking _ laughing _, as they watch another man struggle to get a fire started. A fourth is leaning up against a tree, a length of rope in his hand, and Arabella slowly reaches into her pocket as she recognizes the shape his hands are looping it into. 

A fifth man, the final one, with a face that haunts her dreams, stands over Clayton, grinning as he lazily spins a knife in his fingers. “I'll be honest, I'm gonna enjoy this. Pity it was so easy t’grab y’all.”

Her fingers curl around her revolver, slowly drawing the hammer back. She doesn't take her eyes off the scene before her. 

“We’ll keep you ‘round longest, think it'll be good for ya. Make ya watch the lady hang and the good preacher burn.”

Arabella steadies herself, draws the gun out of her pocket and carefully brings her arm up.

“You'll go in the ground, then, after it's all done. Plant ya like a daisy,” and the other men think that’s real fuckin’ funny, cackling and jeering as Clayton stays stony-faced through it all, laughing harder at the muffled noises coming from Miriam and Matthew. 

Deep breath in. 

“Ain't gonna put you in a box, though. Who needs a coffin when ya already got the name?”

Her bullet strikes him in the neck. 

All hell breaks loose. 

The Butcher falls with a gurgle, dropping his knife and clawing at his throat, because Clayton’s taught her a thing or two and Arabella wasn't shooting to kill. The other men start yelling, one jumping out of the grave to reach for a shotgun, but a bolt of lightning comes flying out from the trees as Aloysius emerges. 

They're not pretty about it. 

She runs forward, barely taking note of the way Clayton rolls to follow the Butcher down; she focuses on shooting the man with the rope, making sure he doesn't have a chance to put that noose to use. Another bolt of electricity from Aloysius’s hand sends the original gravedigger down, his friend shooting towards him, but Arabella finds herself tackled to the ground before she can get a good look at the outcome. 

The man on top of her is heavy, wild-eyed and snarling, spittle at the corners of his mouth. She drives a knee up into his side but the heavy weight of her skirts bog her down, slow her enough that he shifts with the movement before rearing up just enough to backhand her, cracking across her jaw hard enough to snap her head to the side. The hand closes around her throat while she’s still reeling from the blow. 

There’s no hesitation as he begins to squeeze hard enough to make her vision swim. 

Her breath keeps hitching, like if she tries hard enough she’ll be able to fill her burning lungs. Black spots slide across her eyes, and even as she claws at his arms, his neck, the bastard just squeezes tighter, wheezing out alcohol-soaked breath across her face. Her blood is a loud roar in her ears, but she can still just hear that Miriam is screaming, Miriam is _ screaming _ , _ Miriam is scre-- _

Two shots ring out, and the man atop her falls to the side. Arabella rolls the other way and tries to convince her body that they aren’t dying as she falls into a coughing fit. 

Hands are on her, frantic and searching, and she gasps as someone grazes the wound in her shoulder; the pain is a fiery, throbbing thing, but it shocks her system enough that she can finally breathe without her body trying to expel her lungs. 

“Oh, honey,” and Miriam’s there in front of her, helping her up gently as someone, two others, help steady against her back, broad arms bracing her up as Miriam gently cradles her face between her palms. 

Arabella can’t tell which of them is shaking.

“Bella, there a reason the Butcher’s still breathin’?” Clayton’s voice is tightly controlled, and when Arabella looks past her partner she sees him standing over the Butcher, knife in one hand and gun in the other. He doesn’t turn back to look at them. 

“Because,” and she has to stop to wince, throat raw and grating, and she struggles to stand, letting six hands help her up before she tries again, “Because I thought Billy here owed some answers ‘fore we sent him to hell.”

Clayton does turn back at that, looking back at her over his shoulder, brow raised high. “You know this fucker’s name?”

“Billy ‘the Butcher’ Fenton. Knew him back home,” she offers, taking a few testing steps forward. Her legs hold, and she keeps going until she’s right up next to Clayton, leans into him just a little. He reaches back, offers the knife to someone- Matthew, she thinks, sees his broad hand out of the corner of her eye, his fingers tracing over the other man’s knuckles before taking the blade- and then wraps his arm around her waist, holding her firm. 

A wave of peace washes over Arabella as she stares down at the man laying still and panicked beneath them. 

“Hey there, Billy.” His eyes shift over to her, lips twitching into a snarl, and she gives him her best garden party smile. “Tell us who sent you. It’ll be better that way.”

“Fuck you,” is the gritted out answer, and she sighs, feels Clayton’s arm tighten around her. 

“I’ll pass, thank you,” and when Aloysius snorts behind her it takes every bit of her upbringing to keep the saccharine smile on her face. “Who hired you?”

One revolver cocks, then another; the panic in the Butcher’s eyes grows, and he blurts out, “Darnell, it was Mr. Darnell over in Garden City. Didn’t ask why, gold was good and the job sounded fun.”

“Still havin’ fun, Mr. Fenton?” Clayton asks, eyes narrowed, and Arabella lets her grin turn real, exhaustion slowly creeping into her bones. Her friend looks at her then, voice low as he asks, “You know why he’s called the Butcher, Bella?”

There’s a different question in his eyes, but she’s gotten real good at reading him in the past year. 

“You should see my back, Clayton. I was his first,” she tells him, not bothering to keep her voice down, and there’s an audible intake of breath behind them, the creaking of leather. The gunslinger just nods once, tightening his arm around her even as he looks back down at the man beneath them.

“You got any last words, then, _ Butcher _?” and her friend’s voice is like ice but it still sends warmth blooming behind her breastbone. 

“I can take y’all there, help you get ‘im,” he says, more than a little frantically, and Arabella snorts inelegantly, stares down with mild amusement. 

“We certainly don’t need your help to get someone we want.” Clayton squeezes her gently, and she nods once, lets every ounce of her hatred burn through her words as she tells him, “Make it slow.”

One, two, three shots; the gut, the shoulder, the thigh. 

They leave him in screaming in the dirt as they slowly limp away.

They can hear his howls of pain when they find the other set of horses, then the two she and Aloysius had originally taken. He’s still hollering as they make their way out of the trees, but no one’s listening anymore. 

She’s more than a little chagrined that it’s mostly because she damn near falls off her horse. 

“Alright, darlin’, why don’t you go on and get up there with Matthew? He’s big enough to hold you up even if you do pass out,” Miriam suggests, worry laced tight in her words, and Arabella knows better than to protest. She dismounts carefully, carefully, lets the reverend haul her up in front of him and relaxes back against his chest. 

Miriam stays close, and Arabella wishes she could be riding with her. It’s the last thing she remembers for some time. 

* * *

She wakes when they pull her down from the horse.

They’re careful about it, gentle, but aches and pains awaken in her body as she does, and she squints up at the sky as she’s transferred from one set of arms to another. The moon is high, marking the time as midnight, maybe one in the morning, and it’s a surprisingly quiet night in Deadwood. 

Though, if her friends passed through town looking the way they do, she supposes no one would really try to make a ruckus until they were long gone. 

“If any of you wake her, I’ll kill you.” Miriam speaks quietly, words gentle despite the clear warning in them, and Arabella giggles quietly, turning her head until she can see the other woman. Arms tighten around her, and Matthew swears low as he readjusts his grip on her. 

There’s a pause, and everyone slowly turns from where they’ve crowded at her front door to look at Matthew carrying her up the porch stairs. Arabella feels a surge of warmth, relaxes again as she asks, “Are y’all stayin’?”

“I mean, plan was t’just gonna get you safe and patched up, but that ain’t a bad idea,” Aly says, wiping his wrist across his forehead; it leaves a smear of dirt in its wake, and guilt swirls in her gut, sick and heavy. 

“And it’s not as if it’ll be the first time so come on, let’s get inside.” Miriam turns back as she speaks, unlocking the door and ushering them all in. The reverend insists on carrying her up the stairs, but Arabella coaxes him into letting her down at the top, kissing his cheek before shooing him off to follow Clayton into their designated room, Aloysius disappearing across the hall into his. 

Miriam wraps an arm around her waist and doesn’t let go as they slowly make their way down the hall to their own room. 

“Let me draw you a bath, honey,” Miriam murmurs as the door shuts behind them, and though the bed looks a damn sight more inviting, Arabella stills smiles and leans in enough to press their foreheads together. 

The scent of ash, and rotted earth, and gunpowder lingers; her partner still smells of lavender soap and linen, though, comforting and familiar and so like home it brings tears to her eyes. Her voice is more shaky than she means it to be when she says, “Only if you’ll be joinin’ me.”

A gentle kiss, even though she must taste of blood and dirt and soot, and then buttons are carefully undone, laces pulled away, pins taken out. Gentle fingertips trace along the scars on her back, and she bows her head, sighing deeply as Miriam leans forward to kiss the base of her neck. “He’s the one who did all this, huh?”

“Mhmm,” and her lover kisses her again, lips ghosting over her skin, hands smoothing firmly over her sides.

“We should’ve made him suffer far more, then.” The words follow them into the bathroom, into the tub where water is poured and skin is scrubbed until everything is washed away, until she begins to bleed fresh and can begin to count her bruises, until Miriam begins to wash her hair and lets her return the favor. 

Her heart beats steady in her chest, bruised like a peach and aching soft. 

Dampness spills down her cheeks, but Arabella doesn’t take notice, doesn’t realize what it means until Miriam makes a quiet, wounded sound and asks, “Oh, Bella, are you crying?”

It’s like something snaps, and everything crushes down against her, and Arabella begins to sob in a way that she hasn’t since she got the news of her sister’s death. They’re ugly, heaving things, no room left to speak or take a proper breath, just wretched cries clawing their way from her body like they want anything but to remain inside of her. 

There’s a quiet curse beside her, and then she’s being guided up, standing on shaky legs as Miriam towels her off and gets her into a dressing gown, sits her on the edge of the bed as she curls in on herself, sobs wracking her frame. 

The door opens. She can’t bring herself to look up. 

Footsteps lead away, stop; knocking sounds out once, twice; low voices, and then footsteps again, growing louder, more of them, hesitating somewhere at the threshold. 

One set comes closer, near silent, before a weight settles down on the bed next to her, a hand settling on her back warm and heavy through the thin material of the robe. Clayton’s voice is gentle as he murmurs, “S’alright, Bella, we’re all here. You’re safe.”

There’s movement around them, then, supplies being gathered and water sloshing gently in a bowl, fabric ripping, hissed conversations as footsteps come and go, comes and go. Clayton stays steady like a rock next to her, hand pressed firm against her spine, one singular point of contact grounding her into reality. 

Wails turn to muffled gasps, to hitching sighs and hiccups, to unsteady breaths as the fear and pain slowly, slowly slips from her. Tears still roll down her cheeks, but Arabella feels a little hollow, a little lighter as she slowly uncurls and sits up. A blurry shape appears before her, and she has to blink twice before Matthew comes into focus, crouching down in front of her with melancholy in his eyes and concern in the pinch of his mouth. 

“Drink this,” and it’s murmured quietly as he offers a cup of water between them. She tries to give him a smile, shaky as it is, and something loosens in his face, makes something loosen in her own chest as she slowly swallows the cup’s contents. 

Aly sits on her other side as she finishes, twisting to face her as he sets a half-full bowl down on the bed with them. “Mind if I take a look at that shoulder now?”

“Go right ahead.” She undoes a couple of the fastenings on her robe, lets the sleeve slip down until the wound is bared to the room. It’s still seeping when she glances down; less of a graze and more of a carving, the bullet’s done more damage than she expected, and she winces as Aloysius begins to gently dab the blood away. 

Clayton’s hand doesn’t move from her back. 

“Y’want somethin’ to bite on? Gotta pack this in with gauze,” he warns her, and Arabella takes a deep breath, glancing away and nodding once. “Okay. Somebody get the lady a fuckin’ belt.”

Miriam steps into her line of sight, then, already holding a familiar one in her hand; the back of her neck heats up at the wink her partner gives her as she hands it over. She tries to maintain a straight face as she fits it between her teeth, but at the reverend’s cough she doesn't think she manages to do too good of a job about it.

Everything fades away when Aloysius gets to work. Pressure on her arm, burning and flaring bright, and Arabella shuts her eyes, tries to breathe slow and hold herself still as she bites _ hard _ on the leather in her mouth. Voices are trying to soothe her, Clayton’s hands still on her back, but the pain is nearly all-consuming; it's all she can do to just keep herself upright. Finally, finally, rough fingers finish wrapping and gently smooth down the bandages. Tears prick at her eyes when she opens them, but the pain is already subsiding to a low, throbbing ache as Aloysius carefully draws her sleeve back up her arm. 

“Any of the rest of y'all need tending to?” Miriam asks, eyes critical and searching as she gives each of the men a once over. Arabella wants to laugh at the stern look on her face, but instead she forces her jaw open with a crack and removes the well-used belt. “If I find out any of you are hurtin’ later and didn't speak up, we will be havin’ some _ very _ strong words.”

There’s tired laughter, then, and reassurances that no one has anything more serious than some bruises and superficial scrapes. Arabella still can’t find her words, but she hugs them each once before they leave the room, wraps her arms around them tight and buries her face into their shoulders and lets herself know that they are alive. 

They are all alive. 

“How are you feeling, honey? Truly?” Miriam asks as she shuts the door finally, turning her tired, warm gaze onto Arabella. 

“I'm,” and she swallows hard, pauses, thinks _ I'm going to have nightmares, I'm going to imagine all the ways you were supposed to die tonight, just let me listen to your heartbeat _, “I'm okay. Definitely not feelin’ great, or even good, but I'm okay, I think. How are you?”

The other woman smiles softly, crossing back towards her to pull her into a loose embrace, one hand cupping her jaw. “Better now that we’re all back here in one piece and you’re in my arms. You about ready for bed?”

“Yes.” Miriam laughs a little at her eagerness, but it’s a soft thing, kind, and Arabella just smiles when her partner presses a kiss to the corner of her mouth. Dressing gowns are traded for nightgowns, and candles are extinguished, one by one until the room is only dimly illuminated by the moonlight streaming through the curtains.

Neither woman makes a move to close them. 

Instead they fall into bed, shifting and pulling and rearranging themselves until Miriam is loosely holding Arabella to her chest, mindful of her wrapped shoulder, mindful of Miriam’s bruised side. Silence stretches between them, comfortable and easy like a well-used blanket. She listens to the steady heartbeat under her ear and closes her eyes, melting further into the embrace as a kiss is pressed into her hair. 

“I love you,” and it’s a whispered promise, an offering she can’t take back, won’t take back. 

“I know, sweetheart,” murmured softly, hands stroking and petting as Miriam inhales shakily, kissing her head again. “And I love you.”

She knows. She knows. 

* * *

It’s a quarter past three when she knows that sleep won’t find her that night. Miriam is sleeping peacefully, finally, face unlined and body relaxed; Arabella is loathe to disturb her, gently slides out from under her arm until she can slip off the bed, careful not to jostle the mattress. The floor is cold under her feet, and goosebumps prickle over her arms as she crosses to grab her dressing gown, pulling it on and fastening it as quickly as her fingers will allow. 

Her partner has shifted a little when she turns back to the bed, flat on her back with her hair wild and her arm out, as if she’s searching for something, someone. Arabella’s heart feels too full for her chest, and she walks back over, carefully brushes the hair out of Miriam’s face before ghosting a kiss to her forehead. 

She smiles in her sleep. Arabella kisses her again before quietly leaving the room. 

Only her abused vocal cords keep her from screaming when she turns around and runs smack into another person.

“Easy there, Bella.” Clayton’s voice is low, soothing the panic coursing through her veins, and his hands come up to gently grasp her arms, steadying her until she stops trembling. There’s no judgement on his face when she looks up, just a quiet understanding. 

The look in his eyes is like a punch to the gut. 

“You just wake up, Clayton, or you can’t sleep either?” She asks, quiet to match him, and Clayton shakes his head, lips curling up into a small, rueful smile. 

“Not a chance in hell for that tonight,” he admits, eyes flicking over her shoulder to the door just behind her. Something almost shy flits across his face as he hesitates, then mumbles, “Was gonna just check in on y’all, make sure everyone was alright.”

Arabella swallows thickly, a wave of fondness flooding behind her breastbone. She waits for him to look back down before she smiles, shrugging as she tells him, “I was gonna go look and make sure everyone was still here.”

The tension bleeds out of Clayton, sharp and sudden, a huff of a laugh escaping his lips as he squeezes her arms gently. He looks a good deal more relaxed when he suggests, “Let’s go check on ‘em, then.”

Quietly, carefully, they open door, then a second, then a third, waiting to catch the rise and fall of chests before exiting the rooms again. Miriam is just as Arabella left her, deeply at peace and deeply unconscious; Matthew lies on his stomach, drooling with his face half-buried in his pillow, and Clayton looks so fond that Arabella hurts to see it; finally, Aloysius, bare-chested and snoring loud enough they can hear him down the damn hall through the closed door. 

Everyone is breathing. Everyone is alive. Everyone is where they should be. 

“I still don’t think I can sleep,” she admits, weary to the bone and wide-awake all at once. Clayton just sighs and runs a hand through his hair, tying it back before glancing down at her. 

“Me neither. Coffee or tea?” They descend the stairs side by side, and Arabella settles herself into one of the kitchen chairs as she watches her friend putter around the kitchen, loose and relaxed in a way he rarely lets himself be outside of the confines of someone’s home. 

It’s been over half a year since he was comfortable enough to be himself in her home, and she still feels honored every goddamn time. 

He finally finishes preparing her tea, brings a mug over that smells of ginger and lemongrass, and Arabella takes it gratefully, cradling it between her hands as she inhales the steam. Clayton takes a slow sip of his coffee, doctored with enough milk and sugar to satisfy even her own sweet tooth; she wonders, sometimes, if he changes how he takes it based off who’s most likely to steal it. 

“Back porch?” She asks, grinning when he nods in agreement. She takes the arm he offers, curling her hand in the crook of his elbow just for the sake of contact that isn’t dangerous, isn’t liable to get her killed, isn’t asking for or offering anything but comfort. 

The night air is cool as they step out into it, but Arabella just takes a seat on the swinging bench as Clayton hands his coffee off to her before grabbing two blankets out of the basket by the door. She’s sipping from his mug when he turns back, but he doesn’t bat an eye, just settles one blanket around her shoulders before sitting down next to her, tucking her into his side and spreading the second blanket over their laps. She hands back his mug before leaning her head on his shoulder, and the arm around her shoulders tightens, thumb rubbing small circles into her upper arm. 

“Thank you,” she says softly, and Clayton makes a quiet, hurt noise in the back of his throat, like the wind’s been rattled out of him. 

He slowly, slowly lowers his cheek onto her hair. His voice is a low, gentle rumble when he replies, “Thank you, Bella.”

She feels raw, cracked open and oozing fresh. She never wants to stop feeling this way. 

They’re silent as the stars inch past, as the sky begins to lighten and finally, finally the sun spills up over the horizon, pink and orange and beautiful. Arabella cradles her empty mug in her lap and counts the rise and fall of Clayton’s shoulder under her head and thinks that she wouldn’t trade a goddamn moment of the past year for anything. 

Aloysius finds them first, too-awake and whistling, saluting them with his own coffee cup before sinking down into the rocking chair nearby. The good reverend is next, yawning and bleary-eyed and pushed through the door by an amused Miriam. Matthew all but collapses down on the stoop right in front of Clayton, humming low when fingers begin to comb through his hair slowly, his head falling to the side to rest against his partner’s knee. 

Miriam steps past them to get to the other side of the porch swing, and for a moment she’s backlit, all soft and gold like a goddamn angel; it’s not far off, she thinks, smiling helplessly and finally lifting her head as her partner sits gracefully next to her.

“Mornin’, sugar,” and the words are almost as sweet as the lips that press against hers once, twice, three times, soft like a morning breeze. Arabella’s throat is a little tight, but she pays it no mind. 

“We got a plan to make, don’t we?” Matthew mutters, still half-asleep, and Arabella swallows hard, turning to look back at the pale pink-orange of the sky. 

They’ve earned some time. 

“Just another minute,” she asks, maybe a little broken, a little untethered, but no one makes a sound, no one judges, no one denies her. Clayton is warm at her side, and Aly starts humming a low tune, one of her favorites, and Matthew joins in, reaching up and over just enough to find her closest knee through the blanket, squeezing gently. 

Miriam lifts her hand, brushes a soft kiss to the back of her split knuckles. Her soul splits and mends itself over and over and over. 

The sun rises over a new day in Deadwood. New dead will be buried, and new people will die. 

Arabella’s family will not be among them. 

Arabella’s family will live. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! I hope you enjoyed this even half as much as I enjoyed writing it. I tried hard to keep to the characterization, I just love writing these five so much. 
> 
> Title is from "Wild Roses" by Of Monsters and Men, because it came on my playlist while I was writing and it hit me in the head like a 2x4. 
> 
> Thank you again for reading! You can find me over on [tumblr](https://nevershootamockingbird.tumblr.com) and [twitter](https://twitter.com/daleytwin1) if you feel like yelling with me about these characters, this show, or, you know, anything else!


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